A King's Greatest Strength
by Iridia
Summary: Aragorn finds a survivor among the dead at Helm's Deep.


Disclaimer: Tolkien owns them; I don't.  
  
A King's Greatest Strength by Iridia  
  
When the elves called me "Estel", they must have briefly been given the power of prophecy. I have often heard Legolas say, half-complaining, that I do not know how to give up, how to stop hoping. That has shown itself true once again today.  
  
They tell me there are no more wounded among the dead, that all have been found and brought back to be cared for--even Legolas admonished me to stay with the wounded. Yet, something persuades me to leave them in the hands of Gandalf and the other healers, and search just one more time. And in the distance, I can see a slender elf walking among the ruin of the battlefield--searching, just as I am, for one who may yet be alive.  
  
I did not believe I would survive to see this day; yet, I have. But, dotted among the foul remains of orcs, I see many who did not. Their bodies are twisted where they fell; their faces showing surprise, shock, anger, or sometimes--oddly enough--peace.  
  
These are not warriors; they are farmers, merchants, even boys too young to have learned a trade at all. Yet, somehow, without a warrior's training, they had enough courage to fight what must have looked like a hopeless battle; enough resolve to face death.  
  
The heroes that once I admired as a boy, sitting in Ada's study and devouring books much bigger than I, pale in comparison.  
  
To fight, when you have spent all your life training to do so; to die, when you have known and accepted that it would eventually happen... that is one thing. But to fight, when you may never have held a sword or bow; to die, when you want nothing more than to live in peace, to raise crops and children, to be remembered by your grandchildren when your life has ended... that is quite another.  
  
I do not discount the efforts of the great heroes of old; but here, before me, I see people who put even them to shame.  
  
I am the heir of Isildur, the rightful king of Gondor; and I have spent many long hours trying to understand just what it means to be a king. His greatest strength, it is said, is not in his army, or his own skill--but in his people.  
  
Now, more than ever, I believe that.  
  
As I walk, I see many faces: There, an old man, sword still firmly in his grip, lying dead of what looks like a broken neck; he must have fallen from the wall. And here, a young boy who cannot be older than fourteen winters, clutching a short spear whose other end is embedded in the chest of an orc. The boy, too unskilled to realize his momentary defenselessness, had his throat cut by the orc to which he had just dealt a mortal blow.  
  
These are not the only ones; scenes like this can be seen all over the battlefield. These are the people who bought just a little more time, killed just one more enemy, dealt just one more blow. And were it not for their deaths, their families would not be alive today.  
  
I think I hear something; but when I turn round to look, I see only dead orcs.  
  
...No. Not only orcs; for now that I look more closely, I can see the toe of a leather shoe, such as a peasant would wear, peeking out from under the armor of an orc. Did I truly hear the cries of a living, but wounded, man; or is it only the wind?  
  
I do not stop to find out. In another moment, the dead orc is flying through the air as I uncover the rest of the prone figure.  
  
It looks like a young man--fifteen, no older--and with relief and joy, I see that he is alive; a large gash on his forehead is still leaking blood. As I watch, the boy takes a shuddering breath and opens his eyes, tries to speak.  
  
"No; there will be time for talk later," I say, kneeling down and quieting the boy with a finger across his lips. "Be glad; for the battle is won."  
  
I search the boy for obvious injuries and find many shallow cuts, none any more deadly than the cut to his head. He will recover.  
  
I pick him up; and as I do, his helmet falls off, and a long, blonde mane of hair spills out--much longer than any rider of Rohan would wear. It is only then that I notice the delicate features, the shapely lips, the slight curve of the figure, hidden by bulky armor.  
  
"You... you are a..." I stutter, not quite believing my eyes.  
  
"Please, sir," the girl whispers, "I had to fight. I had to protect Hailah; I'm all she's got, an' she being only three..." Her eyes flutter closed as she succumbs to unconsciousness.  
  
Who are we, to admire the exploits of great warriors, when there are heroes like these?  
  
I carry the girl back to the safety of the healers' care. Legolas meets me half-way there; there are wet paths through the dirt on his cheeks. I realize they match similar ones on my own face.  
  
"So you have found your wounded soldier," Legolas says. "I never doubted you would."  
  
"So I have," I say. We walk the rest of the way in silence.  
  
This girl will live; and, if the war is won, she, and others like her, will become the mothers and fathers of a new generation. They will pass on their courage, their strength, their resolve; and it will lie quiet, unknown even by its possessors, until it is once again needed.  
  
Unskilled, untrained, frightened; yet they are the foundation upon which a country is built.  
  
I hope I am worthy of leading people like these; for they are heroes beyond anything to which I could ever aspire. Whether we will win this war is uncertain; the progress of the Ring-Bearer is unknown; but I see the courage of the common people; and in this, I see hope. 


End file.
